There stands in the storm’s gale, a wiry man, like a scarecrow, or the shadow of a scarecrow. I know him. A string around his chin ties that wide brimmed hat down upon his head. See how the wind tries to steal it from him, how it flaps like a bird. I know him, how these furrowed hills called to his soul, and the rising wind his heart. He will be back before any real danger comes; anything more dangerous than a chill. He’ll want something hot with a bit of bite, and he will not tell you his dreams.
Dreams in the Storm
Tale Told 